by Leah Konen
Unless a tiny part of him likes me, just like I like him.
Another thought strikes me: I’m getting in deeper and deeper, and pretty soon, I’m not going to be able to find a way out.
My eyes case the room, but there’s no one here. The place is totally dead. I pull out my phone, shoot off a quick text.
You busy?
Chrissy replies in less than a minute.
Only waiting for a model who’s ALWAYS LATE to finally show up. I shouldn’t even book her anymore but I was desperate. Why, what’s up?
My thumbs hover over my phone, trying to think about the best way to phrase it.
Have you ever lied to someone you like? Like, like-like? I type finally.
The little dots. She’s thinking.
Well, I guess if you count the fact that I use a photo of me at thirty-five as my online dating profile, then yeah. Why?
I feel a rush of relief. Chrissy is forty-three, though you’d never tell by her personality. Even she, who couldn’t be cooler, wanted to bend the rules a bit when it came to her photo.
I like someone, and I did something kind of like that. I was chatting with him online, it’s not sketchy, don’t worry, he’s my age, but anyway, he’s up here for the summer and the photo I sent before I met him was kind of a misrepresentation. Do you tell them it’s an old photo of you?
She responds immediately.
Hell no.
She keeps typing.
Look, I stare at fashion photography all day, make even gorgeous models appear more perfect. Everyone lies a little bit about their looks. It sucks but it’s kind of our culture right now. Do you know how many guys have said they were six-foot-one on their profile and, I swear to god, they’re nothing close? As your aunt, I’m honestly more worried about your safety, chatting to someone you don’t know online. Have you met him in person? Was it in a safe public place?
Yes, of course, I assure her. Totally safe. Totally public.
And did he like what he saw ;)
I think so, I write back.
So whatever filter you used couldn’t have been that much of a misrepresentation!
She doesn’t get it. Of course she doesn’t get it. But I don’t know how to correct her.
Chrissy hesitates a moment, dots blinking in and out.
Sounds like he adores the wonderful, brilliant, hilarious, and BEAUTIFUL person you are. I wouldn’t worry about any stupid photos—he’s seen you in real life, so it’s a moot point. And in person, you’re enough to charm anyone, my dear.
I smile to myself. Chrissy’s always been such a great cheerleader.
Maybe, in a way, she’s right, even if I’ve left her a little shaky on the particulars. Maybe we all lie a little bit. Perhaps I should just be Olivia, and see what happens. At this point, I’m not sure what else to do.
It’s a half-mile hike to the falls, my sneakers crunching against rocks and ivy. Steinway and I are in the back; she hasn’t stopped talking in about fifteen minutes, detailing everything from her plans to open a store of her own one day to the cute girl she met on a hike just last weekend. “Anyway,” she says as the trail turns to the right. “Your mom seems cool.”
Steinway couldn’t resist coming out with me to the car, shoving her hand through the window and introducing herself to my mom, who was more than happy to deliver a swimsuit and a towel. “I’m so glad you’re making friends!” my mom had said out loud, while Steinway was right there within earshot. Oy.
“She’s not so bad,” I say.
“So she’s a total Brooklyn OG, right? Born and raised? You can tell by her accent.”
I laugh. It doesn’t sound like anything to me, but when we go to Iowa, people always comment on it.
“And she knows Marianne from high school?” Steinway asks.
The trail begins to climb before us, mossy and lush beneath our sneakers, and I nod, my breathing getting ever so slightly heavier, the trees surrounding us like tall monsters.
“What does she do now?” Steinway asks as she scrambles up a path of rocks.
“She’s an art history professor,” I say, careful to follow the path exactly how Steinway made it, careful not to trip over any of the exposed roots. “At Pratt.”
“That’s cool,” Steinway says, tugging at the ends of one of her braids before steadying herself against an overgrown tree. “Are you artsy, too?”
I shrug. “A little.”
“Art? Music? Underwater basket weaving?”
We make our way around another bend, the thick of trees preventing us from seeing any farther than about fifty feet ahead. In the distance, I hear the roar of rushing water and echoes of laughter. The rest of them must have reached Pigeon’s Landing already.
“Movies, I guess,” I say, feeling protected, if only for a moment. Besides, I promised myself I would, you know, be myself. Just because I tell her I like movies doesn’t mean Jake is suddenly going to figure everything out. “I’m pretty into movies.”
Steinway laughs. “Like Jake? Get him talking about the film collective where he’s interning, and I swear, he won’t shut up.”
We reach the falls, and I take it in. A small waterfall, can’t be more than ten feet, that cascades into a swimming hole, surrounded by granite rocks covered in moss, dense trees, and a pink-blue sky. I swear it looks like a painting.
“It’s just a hobby,” I say. “I don’t talk about it too much.”
Steinway barely even registers what I’ve said. In minutes, her extra clothes are off, and she’s climbing over the rocks, jumping in, splashing everyone around her.
I take a seat on a rock on the edge, adjusting myself until it’s comfortable, stretching my legs out to catch the last bit of sun, and look out on my coworkers, my new friends. Cora is smiling. Per Steinway, she’s dating someone new, which is apparently the best way to get over a breakup. Tennyson is swimming in his Zipline Experience T-shirt and khaki shorts, and he looks like a drowned rat. Bryson’s got Ray-Bans on, even though shades aren’t necessary, the sun already beginning to set.
It’s amazing how different it is here from Brooklyn. There’s no competition; instead, everyone seems content to move at their own pace. It’s not like they don’t have any plans. Steinway is training to be assistant manager so she can open her store. Cora is studying biochem at Bard. Bryson is at Rutgers, not yet sure what he’s going to study. Even Tennyson, who operates completely by his own unique Tennyson code, is part of a grassroots organization to help get weed legalized in New York State. They’re all doing their thing, but it’s like, somehow, the pressure is off.
Jake is hovering on the edge, and his back is to me, but I can see the way his curls are even glossier, how the water runs down his back as he stands up and shakes off. I think of how he used the walkie, just to make sure I was coming. How differently would things have gone these last couple of weeks if I’d never met him online? I’d have told him immediately about my love of horror, we’d have bonded over it, most definitely; we’d have had even more to talk about during our daily lunch chats.
Steinway pops up and turns to me. Her braids are undone now, her curls messy and slick. “Get in here, girl!”
“In a minute,” I say, looking down. I changed into my suit in the employee bathroom, and yet the idea of whipping off my T-shirt and shorts in front of everyone scares me. There’s nothing wrong with my body; there’s nothing wrong with any body, I really believe that. But even though I don’t think we should be ashamed of how we look, I’m nowhere close to living that truth. Like Chrissy said, we all lie a little bit about our appearance, and all I can think of right now is my gawky elbows, the way my thighs rub together, and that one black hair that grows beneath my belly button.
There’s a splash, and I jump. Goose pimples rise on my arm and a few droplets of water speckle across the bottom of my shirt. I look up; Jake is right there.
“Sorry,” he says. “Seriously, I didn’t mean to get you wet. You’re not coming in?”
I shr
ug. “Eventually.”
His hand trails through the water. “Do I need to come up with a cheesy joke to lure you in?” His eyes flit around the area. Then he grabs a small rock. “Come on in. It rocks!”
I laugh, just as he drops the stone into the water, causing another small splash, sending fresh water droplets onto his chest.
“That was like a two out of ten,” I say.
He stares at me a moment, and I remember, instantly, that I used to rate the nicknames he’d give to me when we were first chatting. Shit.
Luckily, he doesn’t seem to put it together. “Seriously, what’s stopping you?”
The same self-defeating bullshit that kept me from sending you my picture and giving my NYU application a real shot.
“There’s nothing in the water,” he says. “Promise.” Then, lowly, he begins to hum the Jaws theme. “Duh-duh. Duh-duh. Duh-duh-duh-duh . . .”
I hop up as Jake continues to hum. Before I can doubt myself, I shimmy out of my shorts and take off my T-shirt, quick as I can.
I jump, and it’s a jolt to my system, a shockwave of cold. “It’s freezing,” I say, my jaw beginning to shake.
Jake steps forward, arms slightly open, as if he’s going to wrap me up, keep me warm. But then, just as quickly, he steps back, runs his fingers through the water again. “It’s the waterfall water,” he says. “Straight from the top of the mountain.”
I nod, then take a step to the right, toward a little patch of sun that still remains, but as soon as I do, my foot slips from beneath me, and I’m falling to the side, crashing straight into Jake.
For a second, his arms hold me, strong and tense, and I can feel his heart beating as fast as mine, and our skin is wet and sticky against each other’s, and I never, ever, ever want this moment to end.
But he straightens up, quickly, and I find my balance, stepping back. “Sorry,” I say. “The water should really come with a warning sign.”
Jake’s face is red, but he shakes his arms, recovering. “You okay?”
I nod. “Fine.”
More than fine, Jake. Way more than fine.
He forces a smile. “I suppose the monster in this water is Degrees Fahrenheit.”
I laugh, digging my feet into the mossy mud for balance. “Celsius for European distribution.”
Jake shakes with laughter, then smiles at me. “Have you seen Open Water? It’s not nearly as good, but it’s this Jaws-inspired thing, and it’s so much fun.”
I hesitate.
“Oh, wait, you don’t like horror, right? Sorry.”
Steinway’s voice rises above the din of laughter. “Is he trying to get you to watch B-list movies from like a hundred years ago again? Apparently it’s his thing.”
Jake ignores her, turning back to me. “I don’t always watch old stuff,” he says. “The Shallows is a newer one, also about a shark. What can I say? I like shark movies. Shit, do I sound like a five-year-old?”
“Well, you are afraid of the dark . . .”
He grins. “Hey, I told you that and no one else. Please don’t say that out loud. Remember, I’m a newbie, too.”
I laugh. I loved The Shallows. And Open Water, as well. I love high-seas horror. It’s so real, so all-consuming. In fact, I’m the one who told Jake about The Shallows, where surfer Blake Lively has to basically battle a shark on her own.
“By the way,” I say, reminding myself that I promised to be more truthful. “I wouldn’t say I don’t like them at all.”
“What do you mean?” he asks. “Oh. Horror movies?”
“I’m just not that well-versed, I guess.” I can’t very well go back and un-say what I said to him that first day, but at least I can aim a little more for to the truth, try to bring Olivia and Carrie a teensy bit closer together. “I’d actually like to get more into them.”
“Really?” Jake asks, eyes wide, water dripping down his forehead.
I nod.
He smiles briefly, then looks down at the water. “There’s one I was planning to watch tonight, actually.” His eyes catch mine. “If you weren’t doing anything, you know, since us newbies have to stick together, I don’t know, would you want to watch it with me?”
I feel a warmth course through my veins, a contrast to the super-cold water. I was going to go home and try to get in another page or so on my screenplay—perhaps add a swimming hole scene—but I don’t even care about that right now. My heart thumps fast at the thought of us together. Olivia and Jake or Elm and Carrie—it doesn’t even matter—right now, we’re just us.
“I’d love to,” I say.
Fishnado
It’s not that he doesn’t ask anyone else; it’s more that he doesn’t do it all that enthusiastically.
“There’s this horror movie,” he says as we reach the Hunter Mountain parking lot, empty now, except for the group of us. “Er, do you guys want to come watch it with us?”
Cora goes on about meeting up with a new guy she’s dating. Tennyson uses the opportunity to take a bowl out of his pocket and crumble weed into it, explaining that he and Bryson are going to chill for a bit and then play video games. Steinway narrows her eyes. “Horror? No thanks.”
“You okay if it’s just us?” Jake asks quietly, turning to me.
Most definitely.
“Sure,” I say. “If you are,” I add, wrapping the towel tighter around myself.
“You can change at my aunt’s house,” he says, looking away briefly, as if to give me privacy. “You know, if you don’t want to get your clothes all wet. That’s what I’m going to do.”
I nod, nervous at the prospect of being in nothing more than my swimsuit for the entire ride but not exactly wanting to watch a whole movie with wet shorts either. I tug at the bottom of the towel so it covers me up a little more. “Sounds good.”
Steinway smiles as I get into Jake’s navy Honda, her grin lopsided and mischievous. “Have fun, guys,” she says with an incredibly indiscreet wink.
The car smells like pine air freshener and mint gum. At my feet, a DVD of a B horror he once recommended to me. In the cup holder, an old Starbucks cup.
I text my mom as he pulls out of the parking lot.
Going to a movie with friends if that’s okay?
She texts back right away.
Have fun! Be home by eleven please!
In town, Jake takes a right, heading toward the road that leads to Woodstock. Both of us stay quiet as he drives just a few miles over the speed limit, winding through thickets of trees, lush and green, skirting rumbling creeks, the mountains always in the distance. It’s just after eight, the sun not quite fully set, but the darkness is definitely taking over.
The radio isn’t on, and the silence is too much. I have to say something.
“Do you want to work in movies or something?” I ask finally. “I mean, since you’re doing the internship?”
He signals, getting ready to make a turn, and I wait for his answer, one I pretty much already know. “Maybe,” he says, after a pause. “I’m not sure I have the guts to be a real-deal artist, to put myself out there like that. I’m kind of getting more into the business parts of the internship.”
“The business of film or business in general?” I ask, more than a little bit surprised.
He taps at the steering wheel. “I know this will probably make me even more of a nerd in your eyes, but I guess I kind of love math? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m super into movies, especially horror, but I’m discovering it might be more of a hobby. It’s interesting, being at the collective, seeing how they apply for grants and get funding and all that. That probably sounds lame.”
I look down briefly at my hands as we enter the outskirts of Woodstock, not far from my home. I had no idea. There’re just so many holes that can’t be filled through Reddit chatter or workplace lunches. “No,” I say, looking up. “It doesn’t sound lame at all. It sounds cool.”
“I didn’t really have any solid plans, but I knew I needed to get away for the summer
—like I told you yesterday, four siblings in one house can be a lot—and my aunt told me about this internship, and it sounded pretty good. The rest, as they say, is history.”
I laugh. One of the movies he loves most, about a group of friends trapped in a house, trying to figure out who the killer is, ends with that line: And the rest, as they say, is history.
“Er, here we are,” he says, and he turns right, pulling into a driveway surrounded by thick, dense trees. Before us is a tiny little house, red siding, a roof with a few missing shingles. Paned windows and a porch only big enough for a single chair. As I get out of the car, I hear the trickle of a stream. It’s idyllic, similar to our cottage, but even more tucked away—perfect for a horror director.
The two different sides of me seemingly go to war, despite my attempts to reconcile them. As Olivia, I want to be alone with Jake; I really do. But as Carrie, I can’t help but feel a little excitement at the thought of meeting his aunt, the absolute real deal. There’s so much I’d love to ask her, so much I’d want to say. Did you ever doubt yourself so much you couldn’t get a single thing done? Were you ever so afraid of failing that you couldn’t even try?
We get out of the car and Jake hovers in front of the doorway. “I hope it’s okay, but my aunt is shooting late tonight,” Jake says. “Up in Windham.”
A heat rises in my cheeks. Forget talking to his aunt about movies. The thought of us alone, together, it’s almost too much—in a good way, that is.
“Not that I’m expecting anything, to, I mean . . .” He blushes. “I just mean, she’s not here. So don’t be surprised.”
I grin. “Okay, I won’t be.”
Jake digs in his pocket for the keys. “So you guys come up just for the summers?” he asks, his hands fumbling for the lock and finding it after a second or two too long.
“Yeah,” I say as he opens the door. “My parents only got the place last year. We were here for six weeks after they finalized all the paperwork. This is the first summer that we’ve come up for the whole time.”
Jake flips on the lights, and we walk into a smallish living room, a cushy red sofa facing a fireplace with a TV sitting on the mantel. In a corner, tripods and lights, gear zipped into black canvas bags. “Do you want something to drink?” Jake asks. “I mean, like, iced tea or something. Unless you want me to break into my aunt’s whiskey, but I won’t be able to join you. That stuff smells so gross.”
